


We'll Be Fine

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Dark, Descent into Madness, Dissociation, Horror, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Psychological Horror, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: After Arthur and Charles are exiled from the gang, they journey toward Canada to find a new life for themselves. Along the way, Arthur must face a horrible truth about what really happened to them, and about what is real and what is imagined.Beneath the unyielding darkness of a hundred grasping limbs, aching for the touch of sunlight to tear away the haze of horror, Arthur grasped Charles' hand hard enough to hurt."Charles," he murmured, his voice a rasp of terror. "Legs...a man's legs ain't supposed to bend that way." Charles' answer was soft, the quiet dread in his voice barely a tremble in his bass tone."That isn't a man."
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, John Marston & Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 27
Kudos: 75





	We'll Be Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Всё будет хорошо](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506531) by [Zola_116](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zola_116/pseuds/Zola_116)



> So I was going to make this a multi-chapter, super-involved descent-into-madness horror story, but I'm not in the right headspace to write that. I didn't want to abandon the idea altogether, though, so I wrote a shortened version of what I originally had in mind.

It was rare that Arthur showed open affection, even after they left the gang. Always gruff, always a little aloof, never open, not unless they laid side-by-side, their clothes a tangled mess of desperate urgency on the ground. But now, out in the open, beneath the unyielding darkness of a hundred grasping limbs, aching for the touch of sunlight to tear away the haze of horror, Arthur grasped Charles' hand hard enough to hurt.

"Charles," he murmured, his voice a rasp of terror. "Legs...a man's legs ain't supposed to bend that way." Charles' answer was soft, the quiet dread in his voice barely a tremble in his bass tone.

"That isn't a man."

\-----------------

Charles pulled the two ends of his beaded necklace together behind Arthur's neck, kissing his nape, then his shoulders. In their post-coital haze, he wanted something to bring them closer, something to prove he wanted Arthur, forever.

"I love you," he assured him, nuzzling where he had tied the necklace in place.

"Love you too," Arthur murmured, turning in his grasp. Charles chuckled.

"You don't have to say it like it's a secret, Arthur."

"Might need to be," Arthur admitted, adjusting his head on his pillow. "Way things is goin'. Dutch is gettin' madder and madder. Who knows what will set him off next, especially with you givin' him grief about his plans. He thinks one of us is a rat. We gotta be careful."

"We'll be fine. Arthur," Charles told him, running strong fingers through his hair, settling it over the necklace. "You know that, right? As long as we're together, we'll be fine."

"I know," Arthur agreed, bumping his forehead against Charles'. Arthur fiddled with the beads.

"What does it mean?" he asked softly.

"It means we're bound together. It's a promise," Charles explained. Arthur looked up from the beads to meet his lover's earnest expression. His chest warmed and he swallowed, his cheeks burning. It almost seemed too much and for a moment it was overwhelming, but it felt right. For the first time, he felt whole. Still, he doubted.

"You really okay saddlin' yourself to a monster like me, Charles?"

"Oh Arthur," Charles said in a mournful tone, pulling him closer. "You're not a monster. Come here. Of course I want to be bound to you. I will ride with you anywhere, follow you anywhere, so long as you promise the same to me. I won't leave you, Arthur. You're mine, and I'm yours."

"I don't deserve you," Arthur whispered, his fingers trailing along Charles' cheek.

"I'll prove to you that you do," Charles promised, kissing him again. They moved together, tangling in the sheets of the warm hotel room, Arthur's lips and then his legs wrapping around Charles, their bodies colliding with passion, lips and tongues crashing together, fingers tangling in hair, hands wiping away sweat, worshiping one another in the semi-darkness of the rented room.

In the morning, Arthur dressed, buttoning his shirt up over the necklace, hiding it. Charles frowned, but said nothing. Arthur was never open about his emotions, preferring stoicism when it came to their love affair. He wasn't ashamed of Charles, but he would never flaunt what was between them publicly. In camp, he would allow the back of his hand to brush against Charles', would exchange heated looks, his eyes full of longing and lust. Charles would answer, his fingers caressing Arthur's when he would hand him a bundle of arrows, his hand dragging along Arthur's back or shoulders when they bumped into one another as they worked on chores.

And in the stillness and quiet of the night, they would sneak out of camp, cleaving to one another, Charles biting down on Arthur's shoulder next to the necklace, Arthur moaning beneath the big hand clamped over his mouth as Charles moved within him.

The words "I love you," would spill out of Arthur as climax overwhelmed him, as Charles covered his body with his own, grasping at his hips, his legs, biting and kissing him where no one could see the marks he left.

"I love you too," he would answer, his fingers twining together a handful of Arthur's hair and the beads of his necklace, reminding him that they were bound.

When Arthur got sick, Charles held him close.

"We'll be fine, Arthur," he promised, but he was no longer sure if he was telling the truth. So when Dutch demanded that Arthur continue to work, continue to put himself in danger, Charles couldn't take it anymore. At first, he merely made comments, expressing his displeasure at Arthur's treatment. But comments swiftly grew to outright mutiny, demanding that Dutch put more thought into his plans, demanding that both Arthur and the natives be treated fairly, demanding some course of sanity amid Dutch's wild grasps at riches and freedom.

But Arthur and Charles paid dearly for their disobedience, fleeing the gang after a night of madness and violence. And madness followed them.

\----------------

"Come on, we've gotta push for it. Just a little farther before we camp."

"'Just a little farther'? Charles, you said 'just a little farther' ten miles back!" Charles turned an irritated gaze on him.

"Do you or do you not want to get away from there?" Arthur clenched his jaw, his head flinching to the side as though he wanted to look back, but he resisted it, closing his eyes for a moment against the pull.

"Yes," he whispered. "More'n anything. Let's go." They trudged onwards, letting the cool green forest swallow them, removing them, and any trace of them, from humanity. "Still think we oughta have brought the horses," Arthur complained.

"They would have slowed us down once we're in the thick of it. These forests, they aren't good for riding. We'll be fine. Arthur." Arthur pulled his gaze from the black trunks of the pines and met Charles' gaze, his expression softening slightly. "You know that, right? As long as we're together, we'll be fine."

"We'll be fine," Arthur repeated. "I know." Pine forest gave way to redwood forest as they hiked, stumbling over roots, pushing past ferns nearly as tall as they were. Birds sang in eerie echoes that rang from the branches above them, a cacophony of sound that was foreboding against the dull pounding of thunder in the distance. The trees here grew thick, their boughs sagging under the weight of constant moisture. It began to rain, as it had every day since they had pushed through northern California and up into Oregon. It seemed to rain constantly, but through the thick mat of tree branches and netting of moss on every available surface, very little of it seemed to touch the ground directly, instead oozing through the canopy like a kind of unwanted presence, creeping into clothing and boots and down one's back, mingling with sweat. "Shhit," Arthur griped, removing his hat and wiping his brow for at least the thirtieth time that day. "I know we talked about Canada...please tell me the part of Canada you're takin' us to is at least drier than this."

"It is," Charles answered. "Hush. There's a deer, up ahead." Arthur crouched down next to Charles, watching as the deer stumbled into view, nervously flicking its ears back and forth. It was small, young. Perfect for the two of them to eat and to pack meat for their journey. Charles drew his bowstring back, dark eyes latched onto the beast intently. Arthur bumped his arm just as he loosed and the arrow went astray, sinking with a shudder into one of the trees. The deer bolted, gone in an instant. Charles said nothing, just looked at Arthur.

"Seemed a shame," Arthur muttered sheepishly. "There was a kind of quiet to it. Too pretty to kill." Charles grunted a small noise in his throat, didn't argue. He retrieved his arrow, checking its fletching before sliding it back into his quiver.

Onward they walked, traversing deeper and deeper into the damp forests, moss occasionally reaching to swipe along the back of Arthur's neck, making him shiver. It reminded him too much of Bayou Nwa and all that had happened there. He swallowed, remembering the Night Folk, remembering other, worse folk, their hands on him, remembering the bellowing roars of gators and the insistent, smothering humidity that seemed to sap the strength from his bones. This place was far removed from Lamoyne, and yet it felt the same, flooding him with dread. He wanted to be out of here. He wanted to be gone.

"Think they'll come after us?" Arthur asked a few hours later, as night suffused through the trees, stealing what little light the branches allowed through. It was always dark, always dank, and he always felt on the verge of hopelessness, especially after all that had happened.

"I don't think they have any reason to, anymore," Charles answered. "Dutch...he..."

"I know," Arthur cut him off, his jaw clenching.

"Dutch I understood, but Hosea..."

"Hosea don't come into it," Arthur snapped, his tone going hollow, his eyes sunken and his skin sallow to match those words, those horrible words. He took a shuddering breath. "Don't." Charles stared, turned away, kept walking.

"It's getting dark," Charles pointed out.

"It's always dark," Arthur murmured, despairing for the sun.

"We can camp here," Charles concluded, leading them to a somewhat dry and sufficiently flat spot.

"The tent?"

"It's cold," Charles said in answer, unrolling the canvas as Arthur set up the stakes. It was quickly getting too dark for them to see anything without aid from a lantern or a campfire, but Charles insisted they cold camp. No fire. No risk of being seen, of being followed, of being found. Little did he know, light matters little to darkness.

They crawled into the tent together, and Arthur, too exhausted and too discouraged to maintain much of anything, allowed Charles to gently grind against him, his hand and lips suggesting more than he had to offer.

"Charles," he murmured, bumping his forehead against the smooth brown skin, the long strands of raven-dark hair brushing against his skin.

"Arthur, you haven't...we haven't...since that night...since Dutch and Hosea..." He let his sentence trail off delicately and as though it had just happened Arthur is back in camp, the knife in his hands, blood splattered over his arms, across his face, dripping with a burning sensation into his eyes until he smeared it away, his cold blue eyes meeting horrified brown and green and hazel ones.

"I...I can't feel it, the way I should," Arthur mumbled, and he knew he was making no sense, but it wasn't right, something wasn't _right_ and that much he could feel, but when Charles turned him, pressed against him, his actions begging for warmth, for intimacy craved and rarely given, he succumbed, feeling numb as skin slapped against skin. Charles was oblivious to how much this...no, it didn't hurt him. It did nothing. He felt nothing. Just numb. No, that wasn't right. _Guilt_. Cold, heavy guilt, like a stone pulling him down into deep water, the murk filling his lungs, making it hard to breathe and it hurt...everything hurt.

"Where's the necklace I gave you, Arthur?" Charles whispered.

"I don't know." He felt a tug at his neck, heard the sound of beads scattering the ground and he frowned, confused. He reached back for Charles, but he was gone. "Charles? Where are you?"

Arthur awoke with a gasp of breath, snatching at Charles next to him. He stirred in the darkness.

"Arthur. Are you alright?" Arthur panted, cold sweat clinging to his brow.

"M'fine," he mumbled. "I...it was a dream."

"It's to be expected."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I didn't say you had to," Charles said softly, putting a hand across Arthur's back, stroking him gently. Arthur screwed his eyes shut, but in the overwhelming darkness it made little difference. He sucked in a breath.

"Gotta take a piss. Be right back."

Arthur stood, shoved the tent flap back and staggered outside. He stared up, searching for any light. The barest of tendrils lit the ground just enough so that he wouldn't stumble over a tree root. He undid his britches, sighing as he relieved himself.

Footsteps, nearby. Arthur clenched, shaking himself and rearranging his clothing, his hand on his knife. Probably a bear. Or a moose, maybe. Lumbering. Loud in the quiet of the forest. No owls hooted. No crickets or frogs sang. There was utter silence. Except the footsteps. Then.

"A little goddamn loyalty, Arthur," in a hoarse tone that made Arthur feel as though someone had poured cold water over him. He shivered. He must be hearing things. There was an eerie screech like an inhalation of breath over vocal cords pulled taut. "I raised you, son. And this is how you treat me?"

"No," Arthur muttered, shuffling toward the tent. Another footstep, closer this time, too close. A mass of darkness peering through the trees at him with void eyes that seemed to suck in all the light, what little of it there was.

"I just needed some faith. I," a footstep that shook the ground, "had," another. This time the looming beast was just before him, an absence in the air, roiling, "a plan, Arthur." Those eyes, those void, empty eyes kept him transfixed and now they were Dutch's eyes and it was Dutch's face. "I had a plan. Arthur," the creature extended a dripping black hand with fingers that were too long, nails that were too sharp to be human. The head seemed to dangle from ten feet above him, the slavering maw dripping blackness that soaked into the ground at his feet, "My dear and trusted friend. My boy. Arthur..." The voice moaned, a half-sob, half-shriek in the darkness. The fingers touched Arthur's cheek and he panted, his eyes wide, frozen in terror, unable to move. A tear slid from his eye as he felt the coolness of the touch and knew that it was real.

"Arthur."

Arthur awoke with a gasp.

"Jesus," he cried under his breath, burying his face in his hands.

"Arthur?"

"I'm fine, I said."

"I know. It just took you a while to come back. Everything alright?"

"What?" Arthur stared at where he knew Charles lay, his heart thundering in his chest. What had just happened? He had just been sleeping. No. He had gone outside. There was something outside. "There's something outside," Arthur said dully. Charles chuckled.

"There are a lot of things outside, Arthur. You probably just heard a bear. Go back to sleep." He reached out an arm to pull Arthur close, but he resisted. He didn't want to be touched. Charles didn't fight him as he curled into himself, away from his companion, but still close enough to be warmed by him.

"I love you, Charles," Arthur stated to the darkness. "It's why I..."

"I know." Silence.

Arthur couldn't get back to sleep. He spent the rest of the night staring up at nothing, waiting for light to indicate the start of day. As soon as it was bright enough to do so, he clambered outside, searching for prints, for that black ooze that the creature had drooled onto the ground. Some of the moss and ferns had been matted down, but there was nothing definitive. He opted not to mention the creature to Charles.

In the meantime, he never slept. He couldn't sleep, out of terror of those footsteps, that voice. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't let himself sleep.

But every night, like clockwork, Arthur would awaken, or he thought he would awaken, and he would hear Dutch calling him.

"Arthur! A little loyalty, Arthur! Some goddamn faith!" Arthur would plug his ears, tears watering in his eyes, his hands against the side of his head, sticky with blood, his breath shallow, his lungs burning.

"Arthur," Charles shook him and he awoke, opened his eyes, stared at his hands. Clean. Dry.

"Charles. There's something out there. It's been out there every night. _Watching._ Talking to me." Charles didn't doubt him, didn't mock him, just nodded slowly.

"There is still plenty of the world that can't be explained. We'll start building a fire at night."

"But do you hear it?!" Arthur asked, his eyes wide. Charles tilted his head and there was no sound, no cry for Arthur or for loyalty. There was only silence.

"I believe that you do."

They moved through the forest, Arthur perpetually looking over his shoulder, his nerves on edge, the hair on his neck and his arms constantly standing erect. Even in daylight he could hear it, a whisper in the stale, wet air.

"Aaaaaarrrrtthuuuuurrrrr...I...had...a...plan...some...god...damn...faith...ARTHUR!"

Arthur jerked awake again.

"Arthur."

_"Arthur."_

"ARTHUR!"

"Stop! Stop saying my name, stop!" Arthur wailed, clamping bloody hands over his ears, rocking backward and forward, his body trembling. Charles' brow furrowed.

"Alright." Arthur's eyes were bloodshot, his cheekbones jutting from his thin skin. He hadn't eaten in a week. He hadn't slept. No, no he had slept. Hadn't he?

Footsteps, this time at dusk.

"Do you hear that, Charles?" Arthur asked him desperately, clinging to his sleeve like a child.

"Yes," Charles breathed, but no relief flooded Arthur. If he was losing his mind, wasn't it possible that Charles had too?

The creature loomed into the clearing, an indistinct shape on four stilt-like legs. Its head slid from side to side, up and down, void, empty eyes searching everything until they solidified into Dutch's eyes, staring out of Dutch's gaunt face. Its legs popped and crumpled and melded into a man's legs, but the way it walked...it wasn't right. The knees were reversed. It shuddered, trying to amend its form. Arthur's hand reached out and clasped Charles', his knuckles going white as he gripped Charles' fingers, trying to convince himself that he was there, that _Charles_ was what was real, not this monstrosity pacing malevolently toward them.

"Charles," Arthur murmured, his voice a rasp of terror. "Legs...a man's legs ain't supposed to bend that way." Charles' answer was soft, the quiet dread in his voice barely a tremble in his bass tone.

"That isn't a man."

"It's Dutch," Arthur insisted.

"No." Tugging his hand loose from Arthur's, Charles loosed an arrow and it sunk into the chest of the creature before them. It had Dutch's form, but tar-like fluid flowed over his skin, hiding details from view. The only part of him that looked truly human was his face. It was correct down to the pores and the inane combination of right and not-right made it seem as though someone had put Dutch's head atop a mannequin. Dutch's head stared down at the arrow now sprouting from his not-chest.

"Have a little faith, Arthur," it said softly, void eyes and slavering jaws flickering into and out of view across Dutch's face abruptly, horror upon horror.

"Jesus, Charles, what do we do?!" Charles turned to him, expressionless, the line across his neck stark and jarring.

"Nothing we can do."

"What?! No, no, there has to be something, there has to be a way..."

"There is only _my_ way, Arthur," Dutch declared, his eyes full of insanity and malice. "That's it. Don't you get that? This is all a part of my plan, and he's just getting in the way of it. You know the rules, if you can't be loyal..." Dutch's fingers were twisted in Charles' hair. The big hunter was on his knees, panting, his look defiant.

"No!" Arthur screamed, pushing away the scene again. It was too much. "No! Get the hell out of here! No!" He pulled his sidearm, emptying it into the being. It poured to the ground, a jiggling puddle, then soaked into the dirt, and was gone. "What...the hell...is that thing, Charles?"

"How would I know?" Charles asked, quirking a brow, staring at the space where the creature had been. Arthur shrugged.

"I don't know, you Indians have all sorts of legends..." Charles gave a bitter scoff.

"So you think that because this thing is savage the 'savage' must know what it is." Charles' soft lip curled and Arthur reached out a hand, cupped his jaw in a tender motion.

"It ain't like that, Charles."

"It is. It's all you expect from us. Savagery. It's why Dutch did what he did."

"No. Dutch did what he did because I love you. Because I chose you over him. Which is why I..." Arthur choked on the words, blood dripping from his hands. "No," he snapped, and it was gone. He blinked, looking into Charles' eyes, ignoring for a moment the glaring line across his throat. He reached a hand up, smeared it away. "Enough of that," he said in a dull monotone.

"So many monsters attributed to savages," Charles muttered, stepping out of Arthur's reach. "Has it ever occurred to you that when your people came to this land maybe they brought the monsters with them?"

Arthur stared down at his hands, his gaze blank, as though he was missing something.

"Maybe we are the monsters," he posited. "Maybe _I'm_ the monster. Shit. It doesn't matter. Let's go."

"Where are we going, Arthur?" Arthur's head snapped up.

"What?"

"Where are you going, son?" Dutch asked and Arthur started. It was dark again. When had it gotten dark again? Charles lay on the ground, a puddle beneath him, soaking into the dirt. "There is nowhere to go."

"What the fffuck?" John rasped, horrified. He stared at Dutch, stared at the dripping knife in his hand, looked nervously at Arthur, who was shaking, his eyes welling with furious tears, his thin face going deathly pale.

"I have a plan. And I will not tolerate anyone questioning it. Questioning me."

"You son-of-a-bitch," Arthur growled.

"Ah, ah. None of that Arthur. I know you and Charles here liked to," he let out a deprecating laugh, "'stem the rose' from time to time. But he was a distraction. A weak link."

"Dutch, what have you done?" Hosea whispered, taking a step toward him.

"I did what I needed to, my friend. What had to be done. Right from the start he was questioning. And Micah's right. Arthur has been...led astray." Arthur stared down at the billowing puddle. It was black, or nearly black. Light glittered off it, but the puddle seemed to consume it, its red color leeching to black as it spread.

Led astray.

"Led astray." Charles loving him, trying to keep him safe, trying to keep them _all_ safe by being a voice of reason was leading him astray? Arguing against a piss-poor plan to rob a bank and manipulate yet another group of marginalized people, that was leading him astray? Well, then he was led astray, and let him be damned for it. Arthur slumped to his knees, pulling Charles close, kissing the top of his head. His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes against the horrifying scene before him.

"We'll be fine. Arthur," Charles had told him, running strong fingers through his hair. "You know that, right? As long as we're together, we'll be fine."

"We'll be fine," Arthur repeated, tugging his cooling corpse closer. His gaze flicked up to Dutch's and he lifted his gun.

"Arthur, no!" Hosea warned. Arthur pulled the trigger just as Hosea stepped in front of Dutch. Arthur tried to halt the movement of the hammer against the cartridge, but it was too late. Hosea dropped to the ground, a bullet meant for Dutch lodged in his chest.

"No!" Arthur screamed. Still holding Charles' body in his lap, Arthur stared where Hosea lay nearby, lifting his head weakly to meet Arthur's wild gaze. "This ain't what I wanted," Arthur choked out.

"None of us wanted this, son," Hosea managed, coughing. His eyes went distant. "Don't...don't let him..."

"I won't," Arthur hissed. The light left Hosea's eyes and Arthur leapt to his feet, lunging for Dutch. There was a scrabble, a tangle of limbs. Arthur, overcome with anger and grief, slung Dutch to the ground, sitting across his waist, pinning him. Throwing all his remaining strength into fueling his rage, Arthur wrenched the knife from Dutch's hands. The knife he had slit Charles' throat with. Dutch cried out in terror, grabbing at Arthur's face, clawing at him. He grabbed the necklace, his fingers lacing through it and tearing it from Arthur's neck with a desperate tug. Beads scattered the ground around them, bouncing away madly. With a primeval scream of agony and fury at this final loss, Arthur drove the knife through Dutch's sternum, pulling it out and plunging it in again and again and again until he was drenched in blood, his hands wet and sticky with it, his arms painted red, his face splattered with it as he rammed the blade home repeatedly amid the shrieks of Molly, Abigail, Tilly and the others.

"Arthur, Arthur stop," John begged him, grabbing one of his shoulders. Out of breath, Arthur froze where he sat, the knife raised above his head, poised to stab into Dutch's limp body again, but he was dead and it was done. Arthur's fingers unpeeled from the hilt of the knife and it dropped to the dirt.

"Arthur, what the hell did you do?!" Bill demanded.

 _"Pinche pendejo,_ he fucking killed Dutch!" exclaimed Javier. Arthur's head slid slowly up to meet their gazes, his eyes meeting each one of the gang member's in turn before he spoke.

"I did what I had to do." John's face was pale, his hands were shaking. He pointed away from the grizzly scene.

"Get out of here, Arthur. Get out of here." He leaned in closer, his face etched with pain. "Get out of here. If they see you here again, they're liable to kill you, brother. I'll make sure Charles gets buried right. Go." Arthur sat, frozen. Teeth clenched in a mad grimace, John shoved him hard and drug him to his feet. "I said go!"

Arthur collapsed in on himself, his knees folding backwards as he shrieked into the night. His void eyes searched, but he could find Charles nowhere.

"Charles!" he called, his throat too long, his legs stilt-like. He took a shuddering, shivering step in the darkness, engulfing the light as he paced toward the camp, following, following, always following them, always searching for Charles.

\-------------------

"There's Arthur again," Uncle declared quietly, his voice subdued, his face pale. "He's still followin' us."

"He ain't followin' us, he's dead," John insisted flatly, staring into the dancing flames of their small campfire, a beacon in the encroaching darkness.

"Well, then you tell me why I sometimes see his face, hear his voice in them woods," Abigail demanded, her voice shaking.

"Maybe he's a ghost," Jack murmured, shivering.

"Ain't no such thing as ghosts," John insisted.

"You try tellin' Jack that again when I go to put him to bed," Abigail snapped. "The boy's terrified. We're all terrified. We don't even know where the hell we're goin'." John scowled.

"Away from Blackwater, away from Beaver's Hollow, away from anywhere near there, that's where. Canada, I guess, I don't know."

"Well, I don't like it here, John. It's always rainin'. As it is Molly and Sadie and Pearson already made themselves scarce when we passed through California, just like Trelawny and the others. You can't blame 'em, John."

"Things sometimes get worse before they get better, Abigail."

"John, I am telling you, he is out there. Something is, anyway. And until it goes away, we ain't never gonna have any peace."

Footsteps sounded in the distance. The fire shivered as though afraid.

"It's Uncle Arthur, he's coming," Jack whimpered in a terrified voice, curling into Abigail's embrace for safety.

"It ain't...Jack...goddamnit," John muttered under his breath. His chest ached at the thought of what had happened to Arthur after he left, full of rage and grief. He had already been dying of consumption before that awful night. John had found him a week later, leaning against a rock, cold and still and very, very dead. John had buried Arthur next to Charles, but every night since then, John heard Arthur following them, following as they fled both his ghost and the ghosts of their past. They had made their way north and west, into California and up through Oregon. He didn't want to believe, didn't want to accept that it might be real, but after nearly a year of traveling, he still heard Arthur's voice, crying in the night, wailing for Charles.

Footsteps, nearer now, much nearer than before.

"Chhhhaaaaaarrrrrrlllllles...." hissed a voice that both was and was not Arthur's. John shuddered.

"I don't know what you want," he told the being helplessly. It moved through the trees outside their camp, a blurred shadow a deeper black than John had ever seen.

"Chhhhaaaaaarrrrrrlllllles...." Arthur's voice wailed. "Wheeeeeeeeeerrrrree is heeeeeeeeee?"

"I've tried leavin' the journal, I tried leavin' the hat, I don't know what you want, Arthur. Is it this, is this what you want?" John demanded, throwing Arthur's satchel toward the lugubrious mass just outside of range of the campfire's light. The bag landed, the clip holding it shut failing. Pencils and dried flower petals flew out of it, along with dozens of other baubles that Arthur had collected. Among the mess were several beads, carved from bone and turquoise and wood. Abigail had tucked them in Arthur's satchel that awful night. Dutch's blood still stained them, a dull iron brown splashed across blue and tan and white.

The creature at the edge of the clearing let out a low, rumbling moan, taking a step toward the satchel. When its forefoot touched the earth, John could see it clearly. Its fingers were too long, its nails too sharp. Its legs bent at all the wrong angles. He stumbled backwards and tripped, landing hard on his backside and scuttling backwards away from it.

"Christ alive," he exclaimed, his heart in his throat. The creature had Arthur's eyes and its features warped and molded into Arthur's face. John's mouth went dry as he stared up at its unnatural form. Joints popped and twisted until it appeared to be some semblance of a man's torso jutting upwards from a deer-like body, all sharp angles and hard lines. Its arms stretched down from shoulders the shape of Arthur's, too-long fingers grasping at and engulfing the beads from the satchel. Arthur's head swung around to stare at John for a long moment.

The young outlaw sat, panting, terrified, frozen in fear, unable to do anything, unable to flee or to fight. It mattered little. The being before him began to melt into the ground, a black ooze that ate up the light but vanished as quickly as it had come. Before the last of it was gone, John heard two voices speak as one. A chill ran down his spine. Charles' voice, and Arthur's, as one.

"Thank you, brother."

And then they were gone.


End file.
